


Future Girl Meets Small Businessman

by gloss



Category: Homestuck, The Office (US)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Memes, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, intoabar, slow motion suburban death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 21:36:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She knows six different carapacian methods for resolving conflict and conferring status, but not how to handle a sweaty middle-aged guy trying to pick her up at Chili's."</p><p>For the <a href="http://intoabar.dreamwidth.org">intoabar challenge</a>. Very mild, vague spoilers for The Office finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Future Girl Meets Small Businessman

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to aphrodite-mine and G. for helping me think this through.

You haven't lived - for some quality of "living" - until you've seen exactly what happens when a half-eaten Bacon Ranch Quesadilla splashes down in a puddle of Loaded Baked Potato Soup and collides with the discarded gristle from a Chicken Fried Steak.

The result is art. Horrific, soul-scarring art on a level with John Wayne Gacy and Bob Keane, but art nonetheless.

In a way, she must be truly blessed to get to wash dishes at Chili's. How else would she get to have such epiphanies?

Turns out, being a girl from the future without work experience or a future GED severely limits one's career options. It isn't as if she can put "saving universes" under "Special Skills" on her resume, either. John and the others did most of the work. 

So Roxy does whatever she has to make it through these shifts. Tonight, she's an art critic. Last week, she was a forensic investigator. 

She's soaked in sweat, her feet have moved past "aching" through "throbbing" and are now just plain "in total fucking agony".

All the same, when her manager Sandy tells her to shut down the line an hour early, Roxy isn't happy. She wields the spray nozzle like a pistol, aiming dead-on at Sandy's heart.

"There's tons more to do," she says. That isn't true, but it's worth a try. "C'mon, please? Just let me work out the shift?"

Sandy covers the nozzle with her palm and eases it down to Roxy's side. "It's empty as hell out there, Rox. All we've got is a half-full corporate dinner and the usual sad drunks."

"Fine." Roxy needs every penny of that $7.25 per hour, but all the fight goes out of her at the mere thought of getting to sit down. 

Jane's set to pick her up at 12:30; there's no answer at their place or Dirk's, so Roxy has more time to kill than she knows what to do with. For about six seconds, she considers walking home. However, it's December in Colorado, her feet hurt, and there are no sidewalks this far out in the burbs. And her feet hurt: that bears repeating, it really does.

Fifteen minutes later, she perches on a barstool with a half-order of sweet potato fries and a beer glass of ice and club soda that she's already drained once and refilled. Even away from the washers, she still feels their hum and vibration under her skin. The scent of industrial detergent mingles uncomfortably with those of burger grease and melted cheese. She's thirsty, longing for a buttload of painkillers or Arctic ice floe for her feet, and barely awake.

The shriek of speaker feedback from the dining room jolts her up. After several bangs and grumbles, it seems that someone manages to grab the microphone.

"Sorry, guys," a male voice says. He sounds simultaneously sheepish and out of breath. "Maybe 'drop the mic' is just an expression after all."

Despite herself, Roxy laughs at that. She must be even more tired than she thought.

Jackson, the weeknight bartender, catches her eye. "He's been like that all night."

"Yeah?" She munches a fry as slowly as she can, trying to make it last. "What is it, like stand-up night or something?"

"Awards show," Jackson says, disappearing as he squats down to fiddle under the bar sink.

"What?"

"My thoughts exactly." He pops back up, sponge in hand, and starts wiping down the far end of the bar.

She figures he must be joking, but eavesdropping for another few minutes confirms Jackson's claim. It's impossible to tell what the awards are for -- "punctuality" is followed by "most overpriced latte" -- but the skits and jokes in between are pure cheese, hammier than any Jerry Lewis telethon. (Roxy once watched seven years' worth of Jerry Lewis telethons while trying to survive a bout with the flu. She doesn't recommend it.)

"Goodnight," the MC's voice says a little later. Roxy has nearly finished her fries and is counting the change in her pocket to see if she can possibly afford to buy another plateful. Who knows, maybe the change copulated and had lots of babies. "Drive safe, tip your waitress, and don't forget to come into work tomorrow, or I'll tell your boss where you were!" His uneasy laughter suggests that he was telling a joke.

Jackson rolls his eyes and refills her club soda. She bites the inside of her cheek and counts backward by ϖ from 100 until the desire to order a bourbon subsides.

"No one's left in there," he says, dropping a fresh wedge of lime into her glass. "Pretty sure he's been talking to himself for at least half an hour --" He breaks off and straightens up. "Evening, sir. Get you a nightcap?"

That must be the MC. His tuxedo shirt is dark with sweat under the arms and down the center of his chest and his loose bow tie dangles inside his open collar. The enormous Plains Indian feather headdress he wears whispers as he moves gingerly forward, weighed down by a huge cardboard box overflowing with props (feather boa, sombrero, Mitt Romney mask, giant pointy foam finger) and mini-speakers.

"Yes, thank you, my good man. Appletini, extra maraschinos," the MC says, trying to lift himself onto a stool without releasing the box.

"Here," Roxy says, reaching over to steady the stool for him. He's about her height. She knows how hard it can be to clamber up.

"And thank _you_ , milady." He bows, but he's sitting, clutching his box, so he merely crumples the cardboard. "May I have the honor of obtaining for you a most refreshing liberation?"

Libation, she thinks, but holds her tongue. She's not a _jerk_. She lifts her glass and shakes her head. "I'm good, thanks."

"Wow, you're really pretty," he says, then pauses to try to drink his appletini through the stirrer. When that fails, he sighs and fans himself with the Romney mask. His chest hair is as dense and sweaty as the hair on his head; both are threaded with silver. "Like Beyonce and Sasha Fierce had a baby."

Roxy looks down at her nearly-empty plate. What do you say to that? It's times like this she really regrets having no mom. Manners, Roxy! She knows six different carapacian methods for resolving conflict and conferring status, but not how to handle a sweaty middle-aged guy trying to pick her up at Chili's.

"Um," she says at last. "Thanks?"

"Ooh, are you having sweet potato fries?" He peers at her plate, entranced as a kid in front of Saturday morning cartoons. "You know what's _amazing_? Dip those babies in some maple syrup. Nothing better!"

Roxy's teeth itch at the very idea, but she smiles anyway. He has to be the most inept flirt ever -- he's still wearing a wedding ring, for one, and he's totally distracted by her food, of all things.

"Let's get some more!" He snaps his fingers and Jackson, who's standing right there, grimaces. "Another plate of fries, por favor, garçon."

"Rox, you know I can't --" Jackson says. Sandy has cracked down, big time, on free meals.

"I'm full, it's okay," she tells him.

"I'll pay!" the guy says. "And some cheesy flatbread, too. Extra cheese. No, you know what? Make it a Skillet Queso."

"Big spender," Roxy says, smiling. His enthusiasm is weirdly contagious.

He smiles back and for a second he looks adorable, despite the horrible headdress and sheen of sweat. 

God, does she have a thing for older men? She's never thought about it, but then again, she never knew any older men of her own species. There was Jane's dad, come to think of it, and a finer specimen of human hotness she'd be hardpressed to name. So who knows, maybe she does have an older-man thing. A nice set of Daddy-issues would coordinate fabulously with her countless Mommy-ones.

"Performance high," he says. "Getting up on stage? You know what I'm talking about." (She doesn't, no.) "Nothing like it. Hey, what did the fisherman say to the magician?"

"I have no idea."

He tries to suppress a chuckle, but it burps out before he gives her the punchline: "Pick a cod, any cod!"

Roxy grins. It's about as terrible as any joke she's ever heard, and that includes Jake's tone-deaf recital of the later installments of the Police Academy series, and his delivery is even worse, but there's something about the combination of the two that works.

"Bad joke eel," he explains. "Cod like the fish, not the Boston...thing."

"Got it."

Jackson arrives with the skillet of hot cheese and fresh (full!) order of fries. Roxy knows how terrible the food here is, she has seen, up close and far too personal, what it looks like afterward, and yet her stomach almost growls and her mouth floods with spit.

"Everything all right here?" Jackson asks, speaking directly to Roxy. He darts a meaningful glance at the guy, then back to Roxy.

She reads the signal loud and clear. "Fine, thanks."

"Um?" the guy says, at once oblivious and impatient. "Need that maple syrup, _duh_."

"Ri-i-ight," Jackson drawls. "How could I possibly have forgotten?"

"Incontinence," the guy mutters when Jackson's out of sight. "Hate that."

"I work here, you know," Roxy says. 

"No, but -- aren't you an actress?" 

She laughs. "Nope."

"Really?" He seems honestly confused by this. "But you look like an actress."

"No," she says. She holds up her hands; despite the half-inch thick gloves she wears, her skin there is chapped and peeling. It looks like she dipped them both in library paste, then let it dry. "Dishwasher."

He starts digging in his box furiously, piling props and notecards on the bar. "Here!" he says at last, holding out a small brass figurine. "For you. First Annual Mikey Award for you -- what's your name?"

The award is one of those ten inch tall things, a figure holding a briefcase on a square pedastel. The plaque on the pedastel reads Pointiest Powerpoints: Hillary Sfrazi.

"Not Hillary Sfrazi," Roxy says and tries to hand it back to him. He pushes it back, then folds her hands around the base. "I'm Roxy."

"Hi, Roxy, I'm Michael." He cocks his head at a weird angle, then says in a breathy, high-pitched voice, "Michael Jackson!"

She can't think of anything to say. He waves his hand and says in his normal voice, "Just kidding! I do impressions. Lots of impressions. But my name really is Michael."

She feels almost like it's her fault for not appreciating the joke, so she says, feigning incredulity as best she can, "Wait a minute. Michael of the Mikeys Michael?" 

He beams. "One and the same!"

Roxy salutes him and Michael returns the gesture. While they dig back into the beef-riddled queso, she asks, "So what's Hillary Sfrazi's deal?"

Michael groans loudly. "Ugh, she is the _worst_. Didn't bother to show up for the ceremony, didn't even send a proxy to accept her Mikey."

"But I hear her Powerpoints are really good?"

Michael tugs on her sleeve; at first Roxy thinks he wants the fry she's holding, so she stuffs it into her mouth, but then he crooks his index finger and beckons her closer. She leans over and he says lowly, "They're not that great. I couldn't think of anything else to give her an award for. Honestly, she could really use some new clip-art. I've got CD-ROMs full of great stuff, but does she ever take me up on my offer? No-o-o." 

He slumped lower and lower as he said all that, so now he's almost out of his seat, perpendicular to the floor, as he jams three chips into his mouth and chews morosely. 

"So why give her anything?" Roxy asks hesitantly.

Michael's expression brightens and he pulls himself back up straight by holding onto her elbow. He doesn't release her, just squeezes hard and says, " _Everybody_ gets a Roxy, Michael. Wait. Everyone gets a --"

"A Mikey," she says.

"Yes! Everyone's a star in some way. Most of us are just waiting for a chance to shine. I really believe that, we all can shine bright like a, like a --"

"Diamond?"

He tilts his head this way and that, frowning a little, considering her suggestion. Finally, he nods vigorously and grins. "Rihanna! Good one. Sure, like a diamond I guess."

She's never going to hear what his original simile was, is she? He's off and running down another tangent: something about workplace motivation and self-esteem, the bonds of family and the high price of printer toner. Roxy listens, but most of her attention is taken up by the wonderful-awful food, hot and greasy and perfect. Somehow, despite talking the entire time, Michael manages to pace her chip for chip, fry for fry. Maybe the syrup is energizing him; she can't bear to try it, no matter how much he urges her.

"C'mon," he wheedles, coming at her with a fry half-soaked in glistening syrup. She dodges, bobs, weaves, even ducks almost below the bar, but he doesn't relent.

This is the weirdest attempt at flirtation she's experienced in a long while, probably since her own fumbles around Dirk. That thought trips her up -- she intends to feint left, but leans right instead, nearly bashing her forehead into Michael's.

This close, he smells like Axe and pit-sweat and fake, sticky maple syrup. And meaty queso and cheesy beef-grease.

She doesn't have a thing for older men after all.

"Ve haff vays of making you eat," he says, moving the fry in hypnotic circles.

"Noooo!" she cries. "Uncle, I call uncle."

The void uncoils around her, just a bit, reaching out in thin tendrils and snatching up the fry. Michael blinks in surprise at his suddenly empty hand.

Playing dumb is Roxy's sole area of expertise, and right now, she really gives it her all, shrugging several times, laughing at nothing, twisting in her chair back and forth like a restless kid.

"Meow," Michael says.

She looks over. He's holding up a cheap molded-plastic mask of a cat's face. "Roxy, I'm going to need you to stay late. We gotta catch that red dot."

"I'm sorry?"

"Let me help you type that report," he says, using yet another weird accent. This one is supposed to be a cat? "By stretching out on your keyboard."

"Hey...." Roxy feels recognition starting to dawn. Really slowly, but she's sure she heard that somewhere before.

"No need for the shredder," Michael says, trying to stifle his laughter but snorting painfully. "I'll just use my claws."

"Business Cat!" Roxy claps in relief; the vague recognition was killing her. "You're quoting Business Cat!"

He peeks out from one side. "Quoting? Excuse you, I _am_ Business Cat. Meow."

"My mistake, sorry." She feels genuinely sorry, but for what? "Good one."

Michael sets down the mask. "Great meme, huh? Love it. Love memes."

Roxy keeps nodding. "Is it accurate? Like for business?"

Michael opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Jackson flips on the PA and says to the empty room, "Okay, folks. Closing up. Thanks for choosing Chili's, your one-stop...uh, stop for food, fun, and friends."

"Amen," Michael says reverently. He lifts his drink as if making a toast and looks meaningfully, expectantly, at Roxy until she does the same. Then, as solemnly as a priest, he adds, "food, fun, and friends. That's really what it's all about, isn't it?"

She can't exactly argue, trite as the sentiment is. That would just be mean.

Are his eyes welling with tears? She looks away quickly.

"Listen," he says at the door as they're pulling on their coats and wrapping themselves in scarves. He hands her the box so he can zip his jacket. "You've got to give me your number. We've got a great vibe, we can't let this go."

"I don't know..." Over his shoulder, Roxy sees Jane pulling into the parking lot in her rattling old Lincoln. The Nannamobile lives to drive another day.

" _Come on_ ," Michael says, every bit as insistent as when he wielded the syrupy fry at her. He's definitely persistent; if he does manage to get women or make sales (she's still not sure _what_ he sells; he appeared to assume she somehow already knew), his success has to be down to this.

She gives him Dirk's number. It's close enough to be honest, but not so close as to be uncomfortable.

Outside, the night is perfectly cold, like walking into a marble wall. They pick their way through the inch or so of snow that fell earlier. Other than the gaggle of her coworkers' cars, the lot is empty but for the Nannamobile and one of those new, super-rounded Mom SUVs.

Somehow Roxy is still carrying the box.

"There she is! Hollywood Flaxenhair, light of my life, love of my...also life," Michael calls, slipping and sliding up to the window of the SUV.

"Why, as I live and breathe, it's Michael J. Scott, star of stage and screen! Wanna party, handsome?" The driver uses an accent every bit as weird as any Michael broke out during their conversation, half 1930s gangster, half-Kennedy.

"Holly, this is Roxy. She got the Mikey for being a good listener and even better company. Roxy, my wife, Holly, the boss of me, ball to my chain, mother to my children, flax to my capacitor."

The lady sketches a little bow. She's cute, in a middle-aged elf sort of way. This time, she speaks in a heavy Southern drawl. "Evening, ma'am, pleased to meetcha."

"Can I put this somewhere?" Roxy lifts the box higher. She has no idea what's going on. Is Michael setting up a threesome? That would be -- she doesn't even know what that would be. Weird doesn't begin to cover it. Maybe not; Michael's now ensconced in the passenger seat, leaning over, nuzzling Holly's neck. Maybe he's forgotten about Roxy? She can hope, at least. "My friend's waiting for me, so --"

Holly breaks off kissing Michael just long enough to pop the back and Roxy stows the box. Behind the Nannamobile's wheel, Jane is just gaping at her and Roxy shrugs, giving her the universal _what can I say?_ gesture.

"Well," Roxy says, speaking into the SUV, "guess I'll be going."

She feels awkward and reluctant and just plain flummoxed.

"Night!" Holly calls merrily over her shoulder. "Close it hard, it has trouble latching."

Roxy obeys and then simply stands there in the glare of Jane's headlights while the SUV pulls away. After a long moment, she stirs and pulls herself together, hurrying to the passenger side and sliding inside.

"Don't even ask," she tells Jane.

"What was that?" Jane asks anyway.

Roxy tips her head back and closes her eyes. The bright afterimage of the headlights throbs behind her lids, green as the computer type in the Matrix. "Oh my god J-Crock, I have no idea." She gets a whiff of herself and grimaces. "And I need a shower so bad."

"Bad- _ly_ ," Jane corrects her and dodges the punch Roxy gives her automatically.

*

Michael tracks her down in two days, springing out at her from behind the human-sized cardboard chili just inside the entrance. After swallowing her shriek, Roxy mumbles an apology about the fake number and something about getting picked up in bars.

Michael blinks at that, several times, mouth opening and closing like a guppy. "No, I want to hire you."

Roxy narrows her eyes. If that's a joke -- and it has to be -- it isn't very funny.

Her only (remotely sort-of) work experience besides fanciful dishwashing is instant-messaging across multiple timelines and corralling the yawning mulitversal void.

"Wait, you think I could pick you up?" he adds, leaning in, a weird smile playing across his face.

"Never mind," she says quickly. "What's the job?"

"You can do the twittering," he replies. "And you know how to pin things somehow? Probably on Facebook?"

The following Monday, she finds herself Social Media Manager of Flax-Scott Enterprises. She still doesn't know what they sell, or make, or distribute, but Michael was right about one thing. HR rep Hillary Sfrazi makes _godawful_ PowerPoints.


End file.
